Couched in Terms of Love

A poet once said that love is like a river, taking us on a taut, furious ride through the vicissitudes of life, bringing new insights and depth of purpose as it helps us to touch the better angels of our nature.

That pretty much sums up how I feel about my couch.

Some people don’t fully understand the deep communion that can, when properly nurtured, sprout and grow between a person and his first store-bought couch. These are mostly people with very little vision, people who’ve never known the thrill of settling in for a long afternoon of fully reclined, sweatpant-clad, slack-jawed TV watching, a plate of snacks balanced on one’s stomach (which always looks nice and flat from that position), when the most important words to pierce the cortex are, “Holy moly Marve, woudja get a loada that throw.”

My search for the perfect sofa began in 1985 when a roommate moved out and left me couchless. I was a furniture neophyte and unschooled in the ways of the hunt. I began prowling furniture showrooms in my spare time, and I had a lot of spare time. I took to humming the theme song to “Against All Odds” because it covered the twin concepts of hopeless, unrequited love and a lot of fruitless driving around.

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Then one day, while tooling down Wilshire Boulevard, I saw my couch in a showroom window. As I stopped for a better look, my pulse quickened. He was long and low and sturdy. A big sexy guy with a lifetime guarantee. He had ridiculously big arms and would never go lumpy or sag on me--a pillar of Southwestern-style strength. He was the Fernando Lamas of couches.

He took up a lot of space, but that was a small price to pay for his unflagging support. When friends landed on the rocky shoals of marital discord, they knew they could show up, suitcase in hand, and he would welcome them with his big open arms.

He was there when I dumped a future millionaire, and he was there as I hammered out an entire screenplay on a laptop while watching “Simon & Simon” reruns. He never suggested that my time might be better spent watching the Discovery Channel.

He was at my side on Jan. 31, 1988, when my hometown Redskins beat the odious Denver Broncos in Super Bowl XXII. The Redskins scored 35 points in the second quarter. I taped the game, and in the months to come, I could shake off even the most tenacious funk by lying on the couch and replaying that second quarter. Such was the power of the couch.

But years of round-the-clock hospitality to me and my friends eventually took their toll. His upholstery became nappy and stained. I ordered a slipcover from the Pottery Barn catalog, the only one that would fit over his big shoulders. It was oversized and blousy with foolish little ties. Fernando in drag. I bit my nails.

My friend Gabriela was the first to gaze upon my couch’s new finery. “It looks like an old housecoat,” she pronounced. I was appalled at her insensitivity. Surely she realized the integral role he’d played over the years as I dispensed hours of unsolicited advice to her while channel-surfing in a comfy reclined position.

I began interviewing retirement homes for my old companion, and finally settled on a comedy writer who arrived with a truck and a few spindly friends to take him away. I doubted their ability to lift him, and I was right: They staggered under his manly weight.

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A few weeks later, I got a call from the writer. I was certain he would be grateful for the fine addition to his home. I awaited his lavish praise.

“Your couch has fleas,” he said with some heat. I protested that the couch had suffered from a brief episode of fleas, but that it now had a clean bill of health. “Your couch has fleas,” he repeated loudly and hung up.

I sat on my new couch and took inventory (something I had learned to do from watching “Oprah.”). I’d moved on. I had a comfortable relationship with my new couch, which is tasteful, sophisticated and urbane. A Robert Wagner of a couch.

But our relationship is not the same. Although I think very highly of my new couch, sometimes, especially on Sunday afternoons, I think back to the old days, when it was just the two of us. And I can almost hear him whispering, “You’re getting sleeeepy, sleeeeepy . . .” (or “Only 45 days till football season.”).